Leather and Lace
by LondonBelow
Summary: Collins brings home a new roommate, and Roger finds himself drawn to Mark, but Mark has a different agenda. [challenge 2 entry]
1. New Roommate

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

Before he brought Mark home, Collins warned Roger, "Leave him alone."

Roger had blinked innocently and asked, "What are you talking about?"

He was ready to defend his honor-- okay, yes, he slept around and, he admitted, sometimes things got rough, but he had never had any complaints.

"Just leave Mark alone," Collins said.

That rankled. Roger Davis did not like to be told what to do. "What, he doesn't like cock?" he asked, looking for a fight.

But Collins just shook his head and said, "Roger." So Roger let Mark alone.

At least, he made no advances. But he watched Mark move in, standing at the entrance to his room holding back the blanket that served as a door. He watched a tiny boy, not more than five-two, in a clinging, too-bright red sweater and corduroys shuffle into the loft with Collins' hand on his back.

Roger felt his eyes widen. This wasn't a roommate. This was just a kid, probably fresh out of college if that. How could Collins fear that Roger would harm someone like this? How could anyone?

One thing was certain: Roger wanted him. But would he ever be anything but gentle with a little thing like Mark, a trembling, pale dandelion boy? Of course not. No, Roger already knew what he wanted from Mark: he wanted Mark on his knees. He wanted to pet Mark and reassure him as Mark sucked his cock.

That was what Roger wanted from Mark.

"Hey."

Mark looked up. He had been unpacking the clothes he had into a couple of stacked milk crates. Now he rose, a little too quickly. Stars burst, and he reached out to steady himself. To Mark's surprise, his hand did not fall on the crates but instead into a warm, hard palm.

"Those won't hold you," Roger warned, absently rubbing Mark's hand with his thumb. He smirked. "Even skinny as you are."

Mark blushed.

After a moment's pause, Roger said, "I'm Roger. I live across the loft." He shook Mark's hand. Dumb, Mark allowed this. "Now you say your name," Roger prompted.

"Oh! Mark. Mark Cohen."

"Hi, Mark. So you're another one of Collins' street-rats, huh?"

Mark's blush deepened. So did Roger's smile. He definitely had this boy pegged. "I… I'm not a…"

Roger grinned. "That's all right," he said. "Didn't mean it derogatory. So welcome to the loft."

"Oh. Thank you. I'm… um…"

"How old are you?" Roger prompted. Mark looked anywhere from fifteen to twenty, and Roger was not going to do anything statutory. He was a slut, maybe, definitely liked to have fun, but he was not immoral.

The answer surprised Roger: "Twenty-five." Mark said it with a minor blush, as though he had expected by the age of twenty-five to be some world-renowned doctor or something, not a geeky kid in a grungy flat.

_Twenty-five?_ This kid was older than he was! Not by much, but nevertheless. And he hardly looked a day of fifteen! Before Roger had a chance to comment, Collins stepped into the room. He took one look at the scene and sighed. "I see you've met Roger," he said.

"Oh!" Mark quickly took his hand back. "Yes," he said. "Hi, Roger."

Roger pasted on a dopey grin. "Hi, Mark!"

_To be continued!_

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	2. Storms

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

One thing Mark had always been able to say for storms: he hated them. He hated them, plain and simple; he always had and he always would. And as rain pounded outside and cold and damp crept into the loft, that hatred was not at all diminished. Mark huddled under his blankets and squeezed his eyes shut.

_Back home... the warm quilt. Mom making us cocoa before bed. The-- NO_! He squeezed back tears. Maybe thinking about home was not so wise. Maybe thinking about home was, in fact, idiotic, because he was too big a fuckup to ever go home again. This could be home now.

The prospect sank like a lead disk in Mark's gut.

Thunder snarled, and he shrieked in a girlish high pitch. Dammit.

---

Roger shoved back the covers. He never could sleep through the rain-- it energized him. Something in that damp, fresh smell made him feel as though he had slept for hours. He wandered out of the room, stretching. The sheets just itched him.

Floorboards whined, cold against Roger's bare feet. He yawned and headed for the 'kitchen', where he gulped milk from the carton. Roger wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and replaced the milk. It was still good. Damn. Maybe working, even little as he did, was worth it.

Just as Roger considered going back to his room to toss in discomfort, he heard a girlie shriek from the spare room. "Huh? Who the fu-- Oh, yeah..." Collins' new boy. Well, not Collins' boy. That boy Collins brought home. Whatever. Roger couldn't think of a way to phrase it without making it sound like Collins was having sex with Mark.

"Collins needs to have sex," Roger mumbled. "Make him happier."

He wandered into the spare room, which, he supposed, was not so spare anymore. "Hey," Roger said. Squinting into the darkness, he could just make out the form of Mark... what was his last name? Uh.. Cohn. No. No, that was that lawyer. Cohen. "Mark?" Roger asked. He scratched at the back of his neck and flicked on the light. No Mark, just a trembling lump under the blankets. "Mark... you okay, man?"

"Um... y-yes," Mark stammered. He forced himself to emerge from beneath the covers, suddenly feeling foolish in the judgmental brightness. "I--" Another clap of thunder earned another shriek. "I don't like thunder," Mark mumbled angrily.

"Yeah... kinda happens. You want me to sit with you a while?"

Mark paused. "Did Collins tell you why I'm here?" he asked.

"Yeah. You're his friend, needed a place to crash. It's cool. Thought you might like some company."

Mark swallowed. Noo... He felt an uncomfortable stirring in his groin as he stared at the lanky, boyish creature lounging in the doorway. Roger. His name is Roger. Who cared about his name? How about the amount of skin showing through his undershirt? His bare arms, long and very strong-looking indeed. His worn plaid flannel pants favored him, making his long legs appear longer and failing to maintain a cover over Roger's hips.

Roger wasn't scared by the storm, that was certain. Nor was Roger aroused by Mark. That was certain, too. He didn't even appear cold.

Mark jumped at a thunderclap, relieved, at least, that his eyes had torn away from Roger's crotch.

Roger took this as an invitation. He closed the door quietly-- Mark's heart thumped-- and sat on Mark's mattress. "You don't like storms, huh?" he asked quietly. His voice soothed Mark's racing pulse.

"No," Mark replied, feeling short. Just who did this fellow think he was, anyway, coming in uninvited? Now that he was calm, the fact that someone had seen him quivering like a baby ate at his gut.

Roger nodded. "First time in the city?" he asked.

Mark rolled his eyes. "Look," he said, "just because I was born in Sca'sdale--" He clapped a hand to his mouth. That accent! Trust it to flare at just the wrong moment.

Roger chuckled. "Okay," he said. "So how long you been here?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably. This was really not a conversation he wanted to have at the moment. "A couple of years. You?"

Roger opened his mouth to respond, but a shriek and thunder interrupted him. He smiled. "We need to do something about that." He crawled up beside Mark and leaned back, half-sitting up. "Lie down," he said.

"Wh-what?"

"Lie down," Roger repeated. "No? Okay, you know what? Let's have a fort. Okay? Hang on. Stay here." And with that, Roger hopped off the bed and left the room.

Mark sighed. So much for company. He lay down and pulled the blankets up over his head. Great. It was too fucking bright. The inconsiderate ass had gone and left the light on. Now Mark had a light on _and_ a hard on.

He pulled the covers up over his head and curled into a loose ball. Light filtered in, enough to keep off the darkness but not enough to scare away sleep. Mark attended to his needs first, having a brief and quiet (as possible) hand party, then waited patiently for his heart to slow to a normal rate.

Just as Mark was beginning to feel slightly at peace, Roger returned. He poked Mark through the blankets. "Hey," he said. "Come on. We're having a party."

"What?" Mark asked. He pulled the covers down and saw that Roger truly meant it. There was a handful of chocolate and two glasses of milk on the table by the bed. "Are you serious?"

"Deathly." Roger flopped down on the bed and began unwrapping a candy bar. "If I don't have some chocolate soon, I'll die." He took a bite of Mars bar, then offered it to Mark.

Mark recoiled slightly. "No... thank you," he stammered.

Roger shrugged. "Your loss." Mark took a sip of milk as Roger polished off his candy and gulped down some milk. "So, tell me about yourself, Mark-from-Scarsdale."

Mark sighed. "There's not much to tell. I was born in Scarsdale. Now I'm here. I'm... well... I'm Mark."

Roger chuckled. "Damn, any friendlier and I'll have to kick you out." And Mark began to whimper. They couldn't kick him out. He didn't have anywhere else to go! "Hey." Roger sat up. "I was just foolin' with you, Mark. It's cool. I wouldn't kick you out."

"I-- it's not…" Mark knew Roger wouldn't kick him out, because he knew that Roger _couldn't_ kick him out.

Roger frowned. _Poor kid. Just moved in, probably scared off his head._ Thunder growled, and Mark shuddered. "Hey, c'mere." He pulled Mark close and cradled him against his chest. Mark allowed this, just as he allowed Roger to wrap his arms around him, pet him and rock him.

Slowly, the tension in Mark's muscles began to ease. At the next growl of thunder, he did not whimper, though he shuddered. "It's okay," Roger muttered quickly. "It's okay, I'm here."

And though the presence of a stranger should have meant nothing to Mark, it soothed him. The warm solidity of Roger's body against his shook away the cold and the fear. Mark struggled to maintain wariness as consciousness slipped away. He was asleep in moments.

_To be continued!_

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Oh, and just for the record, five-two was Roger's approximation, Mark's probably a bit taller than that... though it _is_ possible. Tom Cruise is five-two (according to my sister... guess how tall she is...)


	3. Morning Person

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

"Can't we all just pay a third of the rent?"

Roger laughed. "Where'd you find this kid, Thomas?"

The three were gathered at the table, Roger and Mark watching a page of scratched-over math that Collins had been working on. Mark sat back and squinted; Roger was leaning on his forearms on the table, his head so close to the paper Collins pushed him away every few minutes out of sheer annoyance.

"Roger…" Collins was not in the mood to put up with his aggravating roommate.

"Collins, why--"

Roger turned to Mark. "Because," he said, "what you make in a month, Collins makes in a week. Don't advocate for what only appears fair, especially since you will be the one getting screwed over." It was a snippet from one of Collins' lectures, with a Rogerism stapled on at the end.

"You make less than he does," Collins observed.

Roger scoffed. "By, like, thirty dollars, and that's without tips and gigs!"

"How is that possible?" Mark asked. Much as he hated to say it, Mark couldn't see how anyone could actually make less money than he did.

"Roger works fifteen hours a week," Collins explained, throwing Roger a dirty look.

"Don't hate," Roger quipped, and ducked, laughing, as Collins swatted at his head. He smacked the table. "Ow." Roger thumped into his seat, rubbing his brow. "Hey, you guys wanna have a party on Friday?"

"Why would we--" Mark began.

"There's a why? Fuck, Mark, there's no why. Because you'll've finished your first week of work, how about that? I'll buy some pizza, some beer, bring it home after work, we'll party. Come on. Come on, Collins! Mark's in, aren't you, Mark?"

Roger looked to Mark, who glanced at Collins, unsure. "Oh," Roger cooed. "Come on Collins… _please_? I'll clean my room and do all my homework!" Roger shook his head and cackled, amused at his antics.

Collins rolled his eyes. "Fine. But buy some decent beer--"

"Guinness Stout," Roger retorted firmly, and that was that.

Monday morning, Mark swallowed his cereal while Roger sat opposite him reading the Village Voice. "Roger?" Mark asked, tentative. He couldn't stop his eyes roving across the short hairs carpeting Roger's chest.

"Mmhmm?" Roger answered, scanning the page. He reached for his coffee cup. His fingers latched firmly around the rim and he drank. "Nice," he complimented himself, since he had made the coffee. He had also woken Mark with a gentle kick and a warm mug.

"Roger… are you naked?" Mark asked.

Roger snorted. Coffee dribbled out from his nose. He swiped it away, laughing. "Oh, Mark! You don't just… oh, Mark! Jesus. No, I am not naked." He paused. His hysterical tone faded, replaced by a sultry murmured. "Do you want me to be?" he asked, leaning close across the table.

"Bad Roger!" Collins, leaving his room for the first time that morning, swiped the Voice and rolled it up. "What have I told you about humping roommates?" he asked playfully, threatening with the newspaper. Roger growled, barked, and bit down on the Village Voice. Collins dropped the paper and laughed. Roger retrieved it from his mouth, unfurled it and began to read.

Mark asked, "I-is there a rule about, um, dating?"

Roger laughed, but didn't look up. "There aren't really _rules_, Mark," Collins said. "Shouldn't you be leaving soon?"

"Yeah. Um, it's just a couple blocks away so I can walk there pretty quickly."

Collins nodded. "It's quarter-til."

"Already? Shit!" Mark shot up and dashed for the door, calling apologies over his shoulder.

"Is it?" Roger asked.

Collins shook his head. "Nah, half-past. But I don't want him to be late."

"Half past six." Roger shook his head. No wonder his head felt like battered candy floss. He knew that the seven-to-three shift would never be filled by the likes of him. He pushed himself up and headed for his room.

"Going back to sleep?" Collins called.

"At least until the Messiah comes!" Roger called back. He pushed over the blanket and Collins heard the springs groan as Roger flopped onto the mattress.

_To be continued!_

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	4. Kissing

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson

"Roger! I'm goin' to work. Do the fucking marketing!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah…"

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen…" Collins trailed off. He smiled, amused when the students in his Freshmen Seminar recoiled. "Today, you get back your papers." He looked at the students: twenty-three of them, not too big a class but not small, either, for NYU. Some looked bored, some a mix of hopeful and terrified, and some-- "Jason, you're excused." 

Jason was one of the few students Collins knew by name. He was also the only person (other then Roger) who had ever thrown up on him. "Oh, God!" Jason squealed. He ran from the room, trembling, muttering, "Oh, no, oh, no, oh--" Then came a brief silence, and the sound of vomiting.

A girl raised her hand. "Uh, Professor? Could I go make sure he's okay?"

"Yeah, go." Collins watched her leave. He hadn't meant to make a student sick, and a momentary flash of pity crossed his face. Then he turned to the remaining twenty-one students and chuckled. "_Very_ disappointing, children," he said, and almost enjoyed the tremors this raised. He chuckled. "Well, I won't torture you any longer." He picked up a stack of papers and read off the top name. "Austin, David. Did I alphabetize these?" he asked himself.

Other than the occasional reminder to a student-- "Breathe. You're not gettin' your paper back until you start breathing again"-- Collins called names until all but two papers had been returned (Jason's and… Emily's, the girl out helping him). "Guys, it's okay," Collins said. His students looked more than dejected. "That was your first paper, most of you fucked it up-- but that's okay! 'Cause you get to redo it. See all those red marks in the margins? Read them, do what they say, and get these back to me by Friday, okay?"

The door opened, and Emily crept in. Her attempt at quiet failed miserably. "Uh… Jason just went to change his clothes," she told Collins. "Is that okay?"

"It is immensely preferable," Collins said. Emily, and a few other students, laughed. "Here is your paper. You can redo it. Now go sit down and take notes. Okay!" He picked up a stick of chalk and began his lecture.

* * *

Roger pulled on his jacket, stuffed a few bills in the pocket and headed for the market. He went over the list in his head: beer, bread, peanut butter, tinned soup, milk. He checked his funds and was pleased to see that there was enough even for some almost-off fruit from the back of the store. 

Or some gummi bears…

When Mark returned home that afternoon, he whimpered and collapsed onto the couch. Roger pulled aside the 'door' to his room and peeked out. "Mark?" Roger edged nearer. "Hey. What's wrong?"

Mark raised his head from his arms. "Ugh," he moaned, and dropped his head down again.

"Long day?" Roger asked, as though he could have any empathy. Mark only nodded. Roger wrapped his hands around Mark's shoulders and dug his thumbs hard against the base of Mark's neck.

"Ooh! How do you do that?" Mark moaned. "God, that's nice… wow, Roger, that's good. Keep going. Ooh… No, don't stop!" he whined as Roger's hands left his neck. Roger plopped down on the couch beside Mark. "I think you're my hero," Mark whimpered.

Roger reached over and pressed Mark's back with his thumb, eliciting another happy moan. He continued eliciting those sounds until Mark's eyelids fluttered and his mouth was open to faciliatate breathing. Roger used that opening for something else. He pressed his lips to Mark's, pushing them open, daring to probe his tongue into Mark's mouth.

And Mark responded, though his eyes opened in surprise. He kissed back, and one hand found Roger's free one. Roger moved forward, pressing their bodies closer--

and a rolled-up newspaper smacked him over the head.

Roger pulled away. "Ow," he complained, rubbing his head. "Dammit, Collins!"

Mark's body shuddered. He touched his lips gently, then rose. "I... I should..." Without finishing, he dashed into his room.

_To be continued!_

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	5. Party

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Friday could not come soon enough. At nine o'clock, the telephone rang. Collins answered it. "Hey, you've reached Collins, Roger and Mark, leave a message after the beep."

Huddled in a telephone booth near work, Roger chuckled. "Crazy son of a bitch," he said. "Pizza or Thai food?"

"We have this discussion twice a month," Collins reminded him, "and it's always the same outcome."

"Yeah," Roger agreed, "but you know what? Now there's three of us. Where's Mark?"

"Roger, you will not use Mark for your sick, hedonistic pleasures."

Roger laughed. "I want to buy him a curry, Collins. I don't want to tie him to a radiator and spank him."

"What?!"

"Jeez, I said _don't_."

"It's disconcerting that you can come up with that off the top of your head."

"Candy said it to me last week. She was talking about this model in one of her knitting magazines. Anyway, where is he? I wanna talk to him."

Collins sighed. He glanced over his shoulder. Mark sat at the table, gazing absently at the Village Voice. "He's right here. Mark!" Mark glanced up. "You wanna talk to Roger?" Collins asked, offering the telephone.

"Oh, yeah, sure." Mark headed over and took the phone. "Hey, Roger."

Roger wasted no time: "Mark, you like pizza or Thai food better?"

"Oh, well, I like both, but, um, I like Thai food more." Mark held the telephone away from his ear as Roger howled triumphantly, "I love you and I want to have your babies!" To Collins, Mark said, "Roger says, 'in your face'?"

He said it again when he threw open the loft door and strode in carrying two white plastic bags. "In your _face_, Collins!" Roger cried. He set the bags on the table. "New boy called it. We got rice, we got curry, we got wontons, we got fuckin' _sporks…_ who's hungry?"

Mark practically bound across the room. "Ooh." Roger patted his cheek. "Were you not fed today?" he teased.

"Is that the joke?" Mark asked. He dug through the plastic bags until he found the wontons, then he popped one in his mouth. "We're dogs, is that the joke?"

"No, I'm the dog," Roger said. "You can be the cat. Hey! Get back here with those wontons, Pussy!"

Mark returned sheepishly and helped Roger set out styrofoam containers and sporks. Roger popped open a beer and chugged some, then grabbed a second and handed it to Collins. When one was offered to Mark, he shook his head. "Come on, end of the week and we don't have enough to get drunk," Roger urged, but Mark refused. "All the more for me, then."

* * *

On Saturday, Mark awoke lying on someone else's bed with that someone held in his arms and holding him. There was a thumb in Mark's mouth, and as he regained knowledge of his extremities he realized that it was not his thumb. He blinked. Where were his glasses?

Mark desperately needed his glasses. He couldn't see without his glasses. Colors blurred, lines were unclear. There were no boundaries. Mark needed boundaries. He needed his body to end and someone else's to begin.

"Hm? Ooh. Morning, Mark."

Oh. It was Roger, cuddled up beside Mark in-- Mark could feel-- nothing but a T-shirt and-- Mark hoped-- some underwear. "Roger?" Mark asked. "Ohmigod. We… we didn't… _have sex_?"

Roger laughed. "Well," he said, "no, but there's always tonight. And if you suck cock like you sucked my thumb last night--"

Mark leapt out of bed. "Where are my glasses?" he demanded. He was shocked and infuriated to discover that he, too, wore nothing but a T-shirt and underpants.

Roger sat up. "What's--"

"Where the fuck are my glasses!" Mark shouted. He didn't remember undressing himself the previous evening. How had his pants come off? His sweater? Who took his glasses off? Where were they? Who put him in the bed with Roger?!

"Here, right here!" Roger picked up the glasses and held them out. "I took them off after you got into bed, I--"

"You took off my glasses?" Mark demanded. He put them on his face. The room snapped into focus: _Roger's_ room, and Roger, looking very confused. "Just stay away from me, Roger, okay? Stay away from me!" He stalked off before Roger had a chance to speak.

_To be continued!_

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	6. War and Peace

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

"Roger, look, you and Mark-- fuck, Roger!" Collins had pulled back the blanket that served as a door to Roger's room. Roger was sprawled on the bed with his hand down his boxers. "I was _going_ to ask you to show some restraint, but…"

Roger sneered. "I can control myself," he said. "And by the way, I liked Mark. Okay?"

Collins' eyes popped open. "You're _interested_ in him, aren't you, Roger? More than just sex?"

"I have friends who I don't fuck," Roger retorted angrily. "Like you, for instance! And anyway, if I did have an interest in Mark-- _if I did_-- why would that be so bad?"

_Other than your inability to keep your dick out of anything on two legs? _Collins sighed. "Roger… there's a lot you don't know, okay? And a lot I do know. I know you've chased the dragon, and as long as you're flirting with danger, I want you to stop flirting with him."

Roger tossed his head, laughing. "He's a big boy. How do you even know he likes cock? If Mark's not into me, he'll say no."

"Roger… look, I know you. And for some mysterious reason, I _like_ you. But the reasons I like Mark are a lot clearer. I said I could give him a safe place to stay, so whatever happens to him, I'll feel responsible for. Which means you hurt him, I will kick your ass across three time zones, got it?"

"Jesus." Roger stared up at the ceiling. "Fuck off, Thomas."

"Roger--"

"Look." Roger actually pulled his hand out of his underwear and sat up. He leaned forward, his hands clutching the sheets. "You want to know why I would never do a recreational screw with a roommate?"

_I don't have time for the logic of your twisted little brain._ "Why, Roger?"

"Because recreational screws are _casual sex_, okay? Most people don't want relationships involving nothing but sex. Hell, I don't want that. You have casual sex with some girl in a bar, you don't take her home to Mother. People you're going to see again, it gets complicated. People have casual sex for a little fun, no strings attached. See someone again, every day, they want more, you want more, suddenly, all that baggage you don't want is thrust into your lap. So it doesn't make _sense_ for me to do a recreational screw with Mark."

Collins stared at Roger. "Damn," he said. "That's… the most coherent thought I've ever heard from you."

Roger nodded. "Yeah."

"So you have no interest in Mark?"

"I never said that. Mark's pretty. I like him. I won't do him recreationally, but--"

"Roger--"

"I'm in love with him," Roger snapped.

Collins laughed at the sheer absurdity. "Roger," he said. "Other than the comedy of _you_ being _in love_ with anyone but yourself, you've only known him for a couple of weeks!"

"I know that," Roger admitted. The iron was gone from his tone, replaced by sorrow and regret. "But I can't stop feeling like… thinking about him, all the time, he's always there! Thomas… I've never felt this before."

Collins frowned. "Then are you not eating out Candy every night?"

Roger threw a pillow at him. "Fuck off," he snapped, then rolled over and pulled the covers up around his shoulders.

"Hey." Collins looked at his watch. "Rog, look, I gotta get to class, but we'll have a talk about this tonight, okay?" Roger said nothing. Collins recoiled slightly: he had never been flatly ignored, not by Roger. "Roger, come on! You can't go slutting about and get upset when people judge you for it. Roger… we'll talk later." Collins shook his head and left the room.

Roger coughed up a dry sob.

When he arrived home that afternoon, Collins found Mark sprawled on the couch, reading. "Hey." He nudged the couch. "Where's Roger?" Mark shrugged. "You haven't seen him?" Collins asked, surprised. He had almost expected Roger to seduce Mark purely out of spite.

Mark shook his head. "I really haven't seen him since Saturday morning," he admitted.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Oh."

Collins found Roger exactly where he had left him, on his bed, curled around himself and staring at the wall. "You're going to sulk all day?" he asked.

"No, just until I have to work."

Collins chuckled. "Look," he said, "earlier today was just a joke, okay? I didn't mean to hurt you."

Roger sighed. He pushed back the covers and sat up. "If I can't avoid this conversation, will you at least tell me why everyone thinks I'm some sort of serial rapist?" he demanded. "Because just so you know, I think rapists are lower than murderers. They're the scum of the earth. I have _never_ had sex without my partner's consent, and I never will. That's disgusting and sick and I'd rather have my dick cut off with a rusty scythe."

"Roger, I never said that."

"You keep telling me to stay away from Mark, stay away from Mark. Then he has, what, a beer and a shot of vodka, and he falls asleep in my bed and he fucking latches on to me." Roger stood. As he discussed Mark, he pointed vaguely in the direction of the door. "He begged me not to leave him alone! And when we woke up together in the morning, he acted like I had violated him! What did you tell him, Collins?" Roger asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What did you say about me? And if that's how you feel, why haven't you kicked me out?" After a moment's silence, Roger shook his head and turned away.

Collins sighed. "That's not how I feel, Roger." He hugged him across the chest and petted his hair. Roger said nothing, but Collins felt him relax. "Okay?" he asked. "I know you're not a bad guy."

Roger shook his head. "I'm sick of being treated like the monster under the bed. I've been in solid relationships before. You know that."

"Yeah," Collins agreed. He released Roger. "And that wasn't your fault, Roger." Roger sighed, but said nothing. "What does casual sex do for you?" Collins asked. "Does it make that any better?"

"It makes me feel good. I feel good with other people who want to feel good." He flopped down on the bed. "It's our underworld." Collins sat beside him, cross-legged, fascinated. He had never heard Roger speak like this before. "We are people who cannot find love. We're scared… or we've been burned. We are sad, lonely people. But then we find each other, for one night, for one minute. We don't have to leave our sorrow. We like it, it's what we know. But for a few minutes there's release. You can be anyone. You can feel good. And then you can go back to feeling like crap, but you know there's a place where you can feel good."

"How long have you been doing this?" Collins asked.

"Umm… about two years."

"And you like it? Don't you want to stop feeling like crap?"

"Sure," Roger said. "That's for the right person. And I really thought…" He shook his head. "There's no such thing as love," Roger concluded.

Collins' jaw dropped. "There's a such thing as love, Roger," he said. "Believe me, I know. Roger, just because… just because of what happened in college, just because Mark has baggage, too… Roger, love exists, but it's not going to change everything. Only you can change yourself."

Roger scoffed. "How do you know?" he asked. "Who are you to shatter my belief that love is magic and will turn my life around?"

"I've loved you for years, but I can't stop you from making yourself unhappy. Don't scoff, jackass. I've loved you since Freshmen seminar."

Roger laughed. "You hated me in Freshmen seminar."

"You were my favorite student."

"You once sent me out in the hall and told me to masturbate."

Collins laughed. He had forgotten about that. "You wouldn't stop talking about sex! And I did not say masturbate, I said 'ease your sexual frustration'."

"Excuse me, we were talking about _War and Peace_!"

"Which, by the way, is not a gay romance."

"Well, not on the surface." Roger laughed. "I liked your classes," he said.

"Yeah, then listen. Consider this a class: How to Live 803. Mark is not going to save you. He cannot save you, but you can save yourself for him. You gotta do the work, Roger. Ooh, speaking of work--"

"Fuck!"

_To be continued!_

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	7. A Date

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Roger took a full shift that night; he called the loft. "In case anyone worries about me, I'm staying on late tonight. Terrence called in sick. Um… guess I'll see you tomorrow, then." And he stayed on, mixing drinks and pouring beers, wiping the sticky counter with a germ-soaked rag and making small talk with the regulars while one-timers watched football without sound.

As he pulled away, Roger felt his arm brush against something soft and yielding. He glanced over. _Shit. _He had thumped against the not-nearly-ample bosom of his fellow bartender.

He blushed hot red and began to stammer an apology.

"Roger, do you know anything by Tony Kushner?" Candy interrupted.

Roger was called away to take an order. "Have we got London Pride on?" he asked Candy. Roger's partner behind the bar was a short, perky twenty-one-year-old with dyed black hair like feathers and at least seven piercings (left ear three, right ear two, one through the nose and on through the puppy-fat around her belly button). She had only been on a few months, but she and Roger had hit it off at once, although their conversations were mostly brief agreements about their appreciation for the work of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young against corporate strangleholds.

"I loved Zillah's letter to the President. _The osmosis of my poison..._"

She shook her head. "We're getting a delivery on Thursday. I liked her passion, like how she knew her letter would never be taken seriously but she wrote it anyway."

"Sorry, sir, it's not on," Roger told his customer. "We do have Guinness draft, Pale Ale--"

"Guinness is fine."

At midnight, Candy tapped Roger's shoulder. "You want to do the honors?" she asked, indicating a bell hanging near the bar.

Roger yanked the rope. "Last orders!" he bellowed from his deep in belly, enjoying the loudness and privilege as the sound reverbrated through his trachea. He and Candy mixed and distributed the last four drinks of the evening. When their customers were gone, he wiped down the bar while she swept up. The kitchen had closed at 10, so Roger and Candy were alone.

"Listen, tonight was fun," she said.

"Yeah," Roger agreed. "All that Kushner-- you're in college, aren't you?"

Candy nodded. "I'm in the Gallatin school," she said. They stopped by the door to gather their coats. Candy pulled a pink knit cap out of her pocket and jammed it over her hair.

Roger laughed as he shrugged on his leather jacket. "I went there," he said. "I had this professor who changed my life. I had his Freshmen seminar and kept taking his classes as long as I could."

"Oh, I've got a great one this semester. I'm only sorry I've just met him. Who was yours?" She locked the door and they headed down the street.

"Professor Collins."

"No shit, me too!"

Candy was half a step ahead of Roger; he reached out and smoothed down her collar.

"Woah--"

"Roger!"

Roger turned and scanned the environment. Mark was standing at the corner waving. Roger waved back. "Hey, Mark!" he called. To Candy, "My roommate. Just moved in two weeks ago."

"Not your… something more?" Candy asked, raising an eyebrow and giving a wicked grin.

Roger chuckled. "That obvious, huh? I wish." He cut off as they reached the corner. "What're you doing here, Mark? You have work tomorrow, you'll be exhausted."

"I… can we talk?" Mark asked, casting a meaningful glance at Candy.

"No problem," she said. "Good night, Roger. And, um, Mark, right?" They shook hands. Candy jogged off. She turned once to wave and give Roger a thumbs-up, then dashed towards the subway.

"So?" Roger asked Mark. "What's up?"

"I'm sorry about Saturday."

Roger shook his head. "Wasn't anything."

"Well, can I make it up to you?"

"How? We're roommates, things even themselves out-- with buying the milk or--"

Mark interrupted by blurting, "Can I make it up to you as my boyfriend? I mean, maybe. Will you give me a chance?"

Roger paused. This was what he wanted-- Mark, a relationship, a reason to pull himself out of his cas-fucking hell. But… "I don't want you to ask me out because of what you overheard between me and Collins." He exhaled slowly, watching his breath form vague wisps of cloud.

"Makes sense," Mark admitted. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know the time and place."

Roger folded his arms over his chest and hunched his shoulders against the cold. The motion had the added benefit of bringing his face within inches of Mark's. "How about now?"

"What?" Mark felt a burst of warmth then cold damp as Roger's words peppered his face.

"Yeah. I just got off a six-hour shift and I haven't eaten all day. Come to dinner with me?" He felt his shoulders hunch inwards against the cold, crisp air and knew Mark was probably freezing despite his hunter's jacket.

Mark nodded. "Okay," he said. "Where are we going?"

Roger took his hand. "To the subway," he said.

* * *

"So, I've never been on a date like this before," Mark admitted. He glanced around himself at the sticky plastic tables under glaring false light.

"Yeah?" Roger dunked a chicken nugget in honey. "What kind of dates are you used to?" he asked. He took a bite.

Mark considered. "Well… dancing," he said. "Nice dinners." He watched Roger swallowed the honey-soaked nugget and bit into a French fry. "Romance."

Roger mulled this over, chewing a couple of fries, then he swallowed, took a sip of Coke and said, "I'll never be falsely romantic with you." Mark was taken aback; Roger continued, "I'll never put on an act, because you're there in the morning. There's no point in us doing the usual dating dance of pretending to be the people we think our partners want. I already know I'm interested in you, and you… what you see is what you get."

Mark struggled against a frown and failed. He rubbed his forehead. This was stupid. He had been foolish to think someone like Roger... who ever said Roger liked boys? Mark gave himself a tiny shake. Roger had comforted him, slept in the bed with him, sure, but he had made no advances. One comment over breakfast? He had been fucking _joking!_

Mark felt the sudden urge to bang his head against the wall. Roger hadn't brought him here to talk about dating. He wanted to let Mark down as lightly as possible.

Roger loudly sucked honey off his fingertips before continuing, "But I can tell you right now, I wouldn't be here if I didn't consider you, potentially at least, the person with whom I want to spend the rest of my life. I brought you with me, here, to sit at a sticky table and eat Happy Meals at one in the morning, because that's what my life is like. That's what I can share with you. Although, yes, there will be dates," Roger admitted. "I will take you dancing. If that is-- if I am what you want," Roger concluded.

_To be continued!_

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	8. Smut

**Warning:**This chapter is SMUTTY! It tells a lot about Mark, which is why I included it, but if you don't like smut you can probably skip it.

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

The floor was cold-- that was Mark's first thought, that the floor was cold. He closed his eyes as he folded his glasses and set them on the table by the bed, then carefully put in his contacts. He blinked. Mark much preferred his glasses, but the contacts were better suited to the situation.

He stood by the door, then stepped back. Mark wanted to be certain that he was the first thing Roger saw when he stepped into the room. There were other things Roger could notice later: like the handcuffs on the bed, and the crop if that interested him. Mark had even tidied his room up, though he doubted Roger would notice _that_. In fact if Roger noticed anything upon entering the room but Mark, it would be a great disappointment.

_What's taking him so long?_

Mark was beginning to get antsy. He was suddenly all too keenly aware of the cold. Goosebumps rippled across his skin and his nipples were erect, which was more than he could say for his penis. He felt a blush creep onto his cheeks. What could he say? _I'm usually bigger, but it's cold in here… I'm still capable of pleasing you._

The door opened; Mark's head snapped up, his lips parted slightly.

"I realized I don't know your si…" Roger stepped into the room, holding a box of condoms in one hand and jelly in the other. He trailed off, staring at Mark. He blinked and swallowed. His throat was suddenly tight and raw and his jeans tighter than they had been a moment ago. He swallowed.

Mark watched Roger's eyes rove across his body. He straightened his shoulders; this caused him to realize just how much he was slouching. Maybe Roger wouldn't notice Mark gently correcting the tilt in his pelvis. No such luck: Roger's gaze was momentarily fixed on that region. But Mark couldn't just stay slouched over. He felt so fat!

Roger stepped forward. He let the condoms and jelly drop to the floor, grabbed Mark and kissed him hard on the mouth. His hands splayed open across Mark's back, pressing him closer as he kissed, hot and desperate, whimpering into Mark's mouth and sucking his lip.

Roger was panting when he pulled away. He ran his hands across expanses of Mark's skin. He was not as pale as milk, but more the hue of butter, his arms dotted with freckles and dusted with fine, nearly invisible hairs. Roger felt his gut melt.

"You're beautiful."

Mark had been unable to look at Roger, but instead had his eyes fixed on a point above the door, his belly quivering with a desperate need to know that this pleased him.

"You're beautiful."

They were not the words Mark expected, but they certainly sufficed. Mark stepped back when Roger dropped to his knees. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm sorry. Don't you--"

Mark shook his head. "I thought we'd just…" He walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of the smoothed blanket. He held the handcuffs out to Roger.

"Oh. I didn't know you were into that." Roger took the handcuffs and fitted one around his wrist. "So, how do you want me?" he asked.

Mark shook his head. What was _wrong_ with this man? "No," he said, freeing Roger's wrist and snapping the cuff onto his own. "Whatever you want, Roger." _I just hope I can…_

Roger shook his head. He didn't want to fuck Mark. He would not, could not dream of doing anything so crude and violent. The idea of Mark sucking his cock was thoroughly unapproachable. All Roger wanted was to make Mark happy.

He knelt on the floor, and that was when he noticed, hidden beneath the bed, a riding crop. Roger brought the crop out, staring at it, then he looked at Mark. "Um… Mark… do you, um... do you want to use this?" It was strange, clashing with Roger's image of Mark, but if that was what Mark wanted…

"No, I thought you might want to."

"Um... I don't... um..." Roger stopped, unable to speak. The thought of hurting Mark at all, even playfully, made him nauseous. "If you want," he forced himself to say. He leaned forward and kissed Mark, one hand pushing through his hair. "Mark gets whatever he wants," Roger said. _And if what Mark wants is to be pushed around a little… I'll just have to get used to that._

"I don't want to be beaten," Mark said.

Roger hugged him. "No one will ever hurt you," he promised. "Now… about that sex?"

"Yeah. Whatever you want, Roger." Roger brought his head down to Mark's groin. "No-- you don't have to do that-- ooh." Mark groaned. "Oh, my… oh… Roger, where… where do you learn to…" He stopped speaking and began to gasp. The muscles in his back clenched, then loosened, and Mark felt his pelvis buck up towards Roger's mouth. Mark's stomach clenched. He began to rock, moaning with pleasure as Roger sucked and licked until Mark came.

Then Mark flopped back against the pillows. Roger spat into a towel and wiped his mouth before laying down beside him. "Did you like that?" he asked, trailing his fingers across Mark's chest.

Mark nodded. "It was very good," he said. "I can't believe I've never done that before."

"You've never sucked someone off?" Roger asked.

"Oh, no, that I-- yeah. Yeah, I've done that, but never had someone do it to me."

Roger smiled. "Well, any time you want, babe. And, you know, that thing with the handcuffs and the uh…" Roger cleared his throat "…whip, if that's what you're into, I'm willing to give it a shot."

Mark looked at Roger and grinned. "I think," he said, "what _you_'re into is just fine."

_To be continued!_

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	9. Clubbing and Marcus

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

The club was crowded, the music loud, the dance floor a sea of writhing bodies under strobe lights. Mark inched nearer to Roger. "I don't know that I can dance like that!" he called, nearly shouting to be heard over the music.

Roger looped an arm around Mark's waist. "It's fun, I promise!" he shouted back. "Just lose yourself!"

Mark shook his head. He looked up at Roger, pleading. Roger smiled. "All right," he said. "Well, why don't we have a beer and see if you don't relax a little? If you're not feeling better by the end of a cup, I'll take you somewhere else." Mark nodded. That sounded fine. "Find somewhere to sit, okay? I'll join you in a second."

He slipped away, and Mark cast about for a table. There weren't many, and they were artfully designed to look pretty and be thoroughly dysfunctional. Luckily most patrons of the club seemed to be enjoy the mass of dancing, and Mark found a free table easily. He lowered himself onto one of the spindly chairs, praying it would not break.

To Mark, the people were like an orgy, a teenager's fantasy of a drug high. They were shadows, illuminated occasionally and given, for that brief part of a second, life, purpose, identity. But for the most part they were one, each body just the next in a string of vessels to maintain the pulse. Together, they composed something meaningful, something that carried them to a higher level of being.

Alone, they were wackos dancing in the streets.

For that flash of a piece of a second, Mark saw someone he knew. His heart gave a stroke of Haphaestus' hammer against his ribs and fell still, his eyes wide.

_No._ It was a crowded club, and that was no one but a man, another nameless, faceless body in the crowd. It was Mark's fear that made him look familiar.

Mark looked down at the table, suddenly uninterested in the thriving mass of flesh. He didn't want to be here. As soon as Roger returned, Mark decided, he would ask to leave, and Roger would simply have to respect that. Roger would. He was a sweet man, he liked kissing and cuddling, he would respect Mark's need.

"Mark?"

_Oh thank G-d._ Mark raised his eyes. "I--" and fell silent. _Shit._ Not a hallucination after all.

Roger paid for two plastic cups of beer which would, he knew, taste little better than chilled horse's piss, except, of course, for being considerably less pungent. Still, a bit of alcohol eased more than a few things, and surely Mark could overcome his inhibitions with a tiny buzz.

Now where was Mark?

Roger glanced across the room. He saw the dancers, but unless Mark had taken a quick snort of smack Roger seriously doubted he was there. There were the tables, a few of them occupied but none by Mark. Could he be in the bathrooms?

Roger took a step in that direction, but his eyes caught a bit of motion by the door. He looked-- "Hey!"

Of course, across a crowded room with music pounding he went unheard save by the few at the bar, most of whom did not even look up. Roger set down the beers and sprinted across the club towards the exit.

Outside, the cold air smacked him hard across the face. "… didn't know you'd be on parole so early," Roger heard Mark say, but where _was_ Mark? Roger looked around, but couldn't see him. Flakes of snow blew in his face. He batted futilely at them, scanning the scene again.

"Of course mine came up first. After all, you were the little whore."

Roger headed for the alley. He didn't know that voice, but he certainly didn't like it.

"I am not a--"

Roger peered into the alley. Someone a bit smaller than Roger himself had Mark pushed against a wall and was kissing him on the mouth. Mark pushed the guy off. "Fuck off, Marcus!" he snapped.

Marcus sneered. "Well you grew a mouth, didn't you, Markie-boy?" He moved to kiss Mark again, and Mark slapped him. Marcus retorted in kind, causing Mark to cry out and hold the side of his face.

For Roger, it was enough. "Hey!" He strode into the alley. "What the hell do you think you're doing with my boyfriend?" he demanded, shoving Marcus away from Mark. "Don't you ever touch him again!" Roger had lost his temper, and once that was gone he knew no semblance of reason. Heat and adrenaline pumped through his body, decided for him what would be done.

"Your boyfriend?" Marcus asked. He looked from Mark to Roger and laughed. "This the best you could do, Mark?" he asked. "I'll bet he's not half the fuck I am. When he was with me," Marcus told Roger, "he was begging for it."

"That's not true," Mark whimpered quietly. He stood by the wall, still clutching his face.

Roger was torn. His nails bit into his palm. But he was sane enough not to hit. He knew, in the last logical part of his brain, that getting into a fight in a back alley was a really stupid thing to do. But he wanted very much to punch the crap outta this guy.

"Didn't know about me, did you?" Marcus asked. "I guess Mark hasn't told you much. I guess he hasn't told you, either, why he was in jail last year or-- oh. Hasn't Markie-boy told you that he was in jail?" Marcus asked, feigning innocence.

Roger looked to Mark, stunned, but Mark could only shake his head. "Fuck you," Roger spat. "Let's go home, Mark." He held out his hand. When Mark didn't move, Roger said, "Let's just go home. It was wrong to come here. We'll sort this out, just us, okay?" All the while, he didn't take his eyes off Marcus.

Mark took Roger's hand. They managed three steps before Roger heard running footsteps. He tore his hand away from Mark's, turned and smashed his fist against Marcus's head. Marcus crumpled.

"Let's go home," Roger repeated. He took Mark's hand again and tugged him forward. Mark tried to look over his shoulder, but Roger forced him to continue on.

_To be continued!_

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	10. Answers and Questions

Disclaimer: RENT belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Half an hour later, Mark sat on the edge of his bed, his hands in his lap and his eyes cast down.

"So who was he, Mark?" Roger's tone held an edge of fury, a potential to harm.

Mark bit his lip. These clothes smelt of clubbing. Mark _hated_ clubbing. He needed to get changed, put on his pajamas, maybe even have a shower. He needed to get that feeling off his skin.

"Mark?"

But Roger needed information, and he wouldn't give up until he got it. "My ex-boyfriend." Roger shouldn't be angry. After all, he had been with others. Surely he knew that Mark had, too.

"And what he said..." Roger struggled over the next few words, "what he said about you," he decided at last. "Was there any truth to it?"

Mark swallowed hard. He would not, honestly, have claimed to love Roger. He didn't. He enjoyed spending time with him, he wanted to make him happy, he felt himself smile when Roger smiled. Mark liked being close to Roger, holding his hand. He always felt something when Roger spoke only to him.

Mark didn't love Roger, but he could, and he wanted to.

"I need you to tell me that everything that was said in that alley was a lie," Roger continued, struggling and failing to keep the anger from his voice. Mark was silent. "Mark?" He said nothing. "Fuck. So you lied to me?" Roger demanded. He shook his head. "And I just swallowed it all, didn't I? Is there anything you said to me that was not complete _bullshit_? Did you really go to Brown? Can you even _read_, or are you working in the fucking 7-11 because you're nothing but an illiterate whore?" The last two words were shouted with a steadily increasing volume.

Mark had begun to cry. Hot tears streaked down his face and landed in his lap. His shoulders convulsed. "Please stop…" It wasn't Roger speaking. Mark's failures, his shames, were not being paraded out by Roger, but by Michael Cohen, Mark's father who could never again look his son in the eye.

If he heard the plea, Roger ignored it. "Did you enjoy playing me, Mark? Was that fun, was I just another job to you, just paying yourself with the personal satisfaction of having someone totally under your power?" As he said the words, Roger hated himself-- half for believing Mark, and half for doubting him.

"No!" Mark sobbed.

"Then what? Why did you do it, Mark? Why bother? No," Roger said, shaking his head. "I don't care." Roger headed for the door. "I don't care," he repeated, as though saying it to himself would make it more true. Mark cried harder when he heard the bedroom door slam.

Roger slept fitfully. His muscles held tight against the cold and the anger, and he awoke because he could no longer endure sleep. The room was pitch dark, but he knew without knowing how he knew that someone sat at the foot of his bed. "Mark?" he asked.

Mark's voice came from the darkness, cracked and raw: "Yeah." Both men blinked when Roger flicked on the lamp.

"Well?"

Mark looked at his lap. It was obvious enough now what had to be done—obvious, and he had readied himself beforehand, yet when the time came to speak up Mark found his throat dry and tight.

"Collins isn't my friend," Mark began. It had to be done, or he would lose Roger. "He's my parole officer. When they released me, it was into his custody."

Roger nodded. At least that made sense. He had been in jail once himself and lucky enough to be released on his own resources, but he knew that failing that, Collins was an ideal man to take responsibility.

Admittedly largely because Roger didn't know who else to call.

"What were you doing in prison?" he asked.

"I overdosed and when the hospital released me, it was into police custody. They put me in jail. I was lucky with my lawyer. He got me sent to rehab and released once I was clean, but not on my own resources. He knew Collins, called in a favor." I didn't know anyone, Mark thought. At least, no one who would take me in.

"What did you overdose on?" Roger wanted to know.

_He'll know…_ But, Mark reminded himself, the alternative was losing Roger. The alternative was never having a cuddle again.

"Liquid gold."

Roger hissed. He knew the stuff-- he had had a few lungfuls, and it did feel good until the headache set in. "Why'd you use poppers, anyway?" he asked.

Mark sighed. "When I was with Marcus, I was often, um, unable to, uh, perform." _Do you want me now, Roger? Do you want me still knowing I won't please you?_ But Mark knew one thing for certain, and that was that if Roger didn't get answers, their relationship was over. "He suggested I use the amyl so that I would be able to... accept him."

For the first time, Mark raised his eyes, casting one fearful glance at his maybe-maybe-not boyfriend. Roger nodded to indicate that he knew exactly what Mark meant. "He never forced me," Mark added hastily. "Pressured me, yes, made his opinion clear, certainly, but each time, I made the choice."

Roger nodded. "And… whoring?" he asked. He almost didn't do it, almost could not make himself want to, but the grown-up in Roger knew that he needed to know.

Mark shook his head. "Marcus threw some wild parties, a lot of drugs, a lot of sex. I participated, but I never sold myself. You... could say I was a slut," he admitted, blushing so hard it hurt.

Once more, Roger nodded. His eyes itched, the lids too heavy, and he had trouble thinking a coherent thought. "Mark… I need to sleep," Roger said.

"Okay."

Mark stood to go, but Roger added, "Unless… you'd like to stay?" he asked.

Mark paused. He crawled up to the head of the bed and curled underneath the covers. Roger turned off the lamp. "Roger?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm scared of the dark."

Roger mumbled discontentedly. He pulled Mark closer to him. "You're safe with me," he murmured. "Go to sleep."

_To be continued!_

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	11. Concern

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's. I'm just playing with the characters.

"Did he get home last night?"

Roger looked up from the bowl he was scrubbing, his eyes still bleary from sleep. "Who?" he asked. Roger was not a morning person. In fact Roger was not a person to be seen before noon, unless of course he hadn't yet been to bed. Then, as Collins could attest, he was a great deal of fun.

"Mark," Collins clarified. He had the impressive capacity to be fully awake before seven o'clock in the morning; Roger himself meant to crawl under the blankets and catch another five or six hours' rest before attempting anything complicated.

"Oh, yeah," Roger said. "He slept in my room." He dried out the bowl with his threadbare T-shirt.

Collins' coffee mug hit the table a bit too heavily. "In your room?"

"Yeah."

Collins shook his head. He inhaled slowly, exhaled slowly, and tried to remind himself that here was Roger, and he _liked_ Roger and didn't want to hurt him, and Mark was just a twit, and he—Collins—was officially opposed to violence against helpless creatures. "He have a nightmare?" Collins asked.

"Actually, um…" Roger grinned a grin with only one possible meaning, a silly look like a little puppy who'd managed to finally drop his crap on the sidewalk and not on the carpet.

Collins gritted his teeth. "Roger," he said, very slowly. "I… I have to… get to class. Early office hours." Collins drained his coffee cup, nearly choking himself but not daring to show it, and stood. "Tell Mark I want a word with him."

"What's wrong?" Roger asked. The puppy had regressed to old habits, and he wouldn't understand what he had done wrong. "Collins!" he half-called, half-whined, hot on his hells to the door.

Collins turned. He shook his head. "Roger, don't. Please. Just, if you trust me, stay away from Mark for a day or two. You can be his friend, you can kiss him, cuddle him, I don't care, but I want a word with him before he… before you…"

Roger interrupted, "It's all right. He told me, Collins."

"Told you?"

Roger nodded. "He told me that he overdosed and that you're his parole officer," he said. "And that's… that's… well it's unsettling," Roger said. He looked away. "It's unsettling after, you know. But I like this one," he asserted, looking up again. "He's clean now. And anyway, you don't get to tell me who to date! And I would never be stupid enough to become addicted. Not again," Roger added softly, blushing hard.

"I just don't want anything awful to happen to you."

"I can look after myself."

Collins sighed. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, you can, Roger." _But that doesn't mean you will…_

---

Mark was having a spectacular day. After admitting everything to Roger, he had expected distance. He had expected Roger to stay away, expected an awful while of waiting and not knowing if they were yet a them.

Mark received something altogether else. In the morning, Roger woke him with a cup of coffee and walked him to work. Roger was there to walk Mark home when his shift ended, asking about his day and offering his jacket, since Mark seemed cold.

In fact, Mark reflected as he curled up on the couch, already missing Roger, being babied was quite nice. Roger acted as though Mark needed protection, and Mark liked that very much.

"Hey." Collins settled himself in a chair near the couch, curled up against the cold. "Mark, man, we need to talk."

Mark sat up. "Yeah?" he asked.

"There's a reason I asked you to stay away from Roger," Collins said. He had done both: asked Mark to stay away from Roger, asked Roger to stay away from Mark. Mark feared him and Roger respected him, it should have been enough. "You know what happens if I tell the police—"

"I'm clean!" Mark interrupted, half-frantic. He shook his head. "You can't, Collins, I'm clean. I haven't touched anything… I drank," he admitted. "I had a, a beer and some vodka, with you and Roger, that's all," he insisted. "I swear it, I swear to God, I haven't done _anything_ illegal."

"What if I told you," Collins asked, weighing his words carefully, "that Roger Davis is only nineteen years old?"

The affect was instant: Mark leaned forward, his mouth agape and his eyes wide. "_Nineteen?_" he repeated. "I… I thought he was twenty-three!"

"He is twenty-three. Mentally, though, I'd guess about nineteen. Look, Mark, he's made his mistakes, I don't want him paying for yours, okay?"

"I'm clean," Mark insisted.

"You're a liar," Collins returned, anything kind drained from his tone. "Roger told me. He told me, Mark came clean. He was so impressed with you, Mark. He was so _happy_ that you _trusted_ him." Collins forced himself to stop, not because he didn't want to continue berating Mark—he did—but because there were tears gathering in his eyes. He had been around the first time and seen what happened to Roger. He didn't want to see that happen again. "You're a real son of a bitch, you know that?"

Mark shook his head. "_No,_" he insisted. "If he knew--"

"If he knew the truth he could love you! But you don't love him, do you, Mark?"

"I do!"

"Then why are you lying to him?"

"He'd leave me--"

"He wouldn't leave you, he's in love with you! If you told him, he would only love you more. When you play someone, rule number one is _know your mark._ If Roger's your mark then you tell him the truth! He already thinks you're a poor, abused boy who didn't know any better!"

Mark bit his lip. It was how he had thought, too, each time he remembered Marcus's sweetness, the gentle caresses as he forgave Mark's inability, and finally the gentle, halting suggesting, the dropped hint that there was something that could help…

"It doesn't matter," Mark whispered. He had never meant for it to get out of hand. It was behind him now, and that was it. Never look back.

"And if you're HIV-positive?"

"What?"

Both men turned. Standing in the doorway, looking confused and on the brink of hurt, was Roger.

_To be continued!_

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	12. Table Talk

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's

"Y…you're… HIV… positive?" Roger managed, his tone forced. "You… you…"

Mark shook his head. "No," he said. "No, Roger, I'm not." And he wasn't… right? "I swear, Roger, I've been tested--"

"Six months," Collins interjected. "That's not long enough--"

Mark turned his head sharply. "I'm clean, Collins," he snapped. "I'm HIV-negative." For a moment he stared, his eyes gone hard, daring Collins to speak further. And then Mark lowered his eyes. He looked at his knees, his hands, as though drawing himself in, his posture screaming an apology.

It struck Roger then, all that he had learned. It had to be real.

"You can yell at me all you want," Collins said, but he said it gently, telling Mark that he had no need to fear an unfair report simply for childish or unkind conduct. "But if you don't tell him the truth, I will."

Roger looked at Mark, who was beginning to tremble. He looked at Collins. Six years, he had known Collins. Nearly seven. In those years Collins had been a good friend. He hadn't lied. He hadn't judged. Hell, he had helped Roger mop the vomit off his face when withdrawal gave him too terrible shakes. He had shown Roger bottles of pills and told him how lucky he was to escape that fate.

Roger bit his lip.

"Collins… Mark told me…"

"Did you?" Collins asked Mark. "Did you tell him _everything_?" in a tone that made Roger feel like a six-year-old left out on a secret.

Mark raised his eyes to look at Roger. Tear tracks stained his cheeks and his eyes were wet, but he found only halting sympathy in Roger's gaze. Halting, that is, unready, untrusting. "Roger," he whimpered. "Roger, I love you…"

Roger took a step. He shook his head. Clumps of hair dangled before his eyes, obscuring his vision. He knew those words. He had heard them before. He had seem them on a post-it note, scribbled as a last thought after warning him a fate he didn't share.

"Please," Mark insisted, but as Roger backed towards the door, Mark didn't rise to chase Roger. He only insisted, "Please," but couldn't influence. It was up to Roger to make a choice.

"Is he going to die, Collins?" The voice that asked was too young. The voice that asked was that of an eighteen-year-old kid, a college sophomore sitting on the bed in his dormitory and rubbing with idle franticness at his bloody arms. _She'll be okay, right, Professor?_ because the EMTs didn't chase him away as they did Roger. And if Collins said it… if the professor who taught his students first to question everything… if he said it…

Collins shook his head. "We all die, Roger, but Mark is nowhere near the front of the line."

Roger nodded. "Good," he said. "Good."

"Mark."

Mark shook his head. "It's all okay, Roger," taking the dominant role for the first time.

"It's not okay!"

When Collins lost his temper, Roger took another step back, a jump, needing the wall. He _hated_ when Collins lost his temper. Collins was omnipotent. The students in Roger's year had called him "Professor God" and asked him why the sky was blue and why good things happened to bad people and if he regretting killing all the firstborn of Egypt.

"Mark, tell him."

"I…"

Though Collins had calmed, Roger stayed back. His fear began, slowly slowly, to melt.

"Roger… I…"

"He lied to you, Roger." Collins meant it when he said, "I'm sorry. I told you to stay away from him, I hoped you would listen… I didn't want to see you get hurt. Roger--"

"Then don't," Roger interrupted.

"What?"

"You don't want to see it, don't. Don't make it happen. Don't make him, don't hurt me." And with one final shake of his head, he strode towards the blanket that was a door to his mattress-and-milkcrates-room. There was no bed in it.

Mark rose then. The sickness remained in his gut, less violent now that Roger had chosen him. "Roger," he began.

Roger shoved him back. "Get away from me. You fucking lied to me, stay away." And though he had no door to slam, the curtain swung shut with a shocking finality.

They were together the next morning, all of them crunching through bowls of Lucky Charms. Collins had a copy of _Fear and Trembling_ open in front of him. Mark snuck glances when he thought Roger wouldn't notice.

It was Roger who broke the monotony of crunching and car horns.

"You were a whore," he demanded bluntly, "weren't you?"

Mark raised his eyes. Roger was watching him, evenly, his eyes painfully devoid of love.

He nodded. "Sometimes," Mark said.

Roger nodded and returned to his cereal.

"Roger?" Mark asked, tentative. Roger raised his eyes in acknowledgement. "A… are we… could we be… again?" he asked. Even as his voice trembled, Mark was hopeful.

Roger shook his head. "I don't know." He looked at the paper. "Collins, could you pass me the paper?" he asked. His voice was raw from all the tears he hadn't cried.

"You mean the comics?" Collins joked without looking up from his book.

When Roger smiled, it about broke Mark's heart that he could never have such a smile again.

_To be continued!_

One more chapter... will Mark and Roger end up together? You'll see. Wink. Please review?


	13. Epilogue

Disclaimer: RENT is Jonathan Larson's.

Mark looked at the sterile room, sighed, and looked at Roger. _It's been negative,_ he wanted to say. _It's been negative every time, baby. We know it's negative._ The words trembled his lips. Every previous test had been negative for the human immunodeficiency virus.

So why did he need this one? This one would be negative, too. The results would be identical, the pages exactly the same as previously… so why did he need this one?

And why was he so afraid of it?

Roger squeezed his hand. He gave Mark a quick smile. Roger tried to speak, but he didn't know the words…

Mark released Roger's hand and stepped up to the counter. The nurse behind the desk finished her telephone call while Mark fought the urge to leaf through a brochure: 'So Your Life Is Over'—literally it read 'Living with HIV'. Mark knew better.

"Can I help you?"

"M... Mark Cohen," Mark stammered. "I'm here for my test results?"

"All right, Mr. Cohen…" the nurse spun away on her wheeled chair and typed his name into the computer. "C-O-H-E-N?" she asked.

"Yes," he affirmed.

"All right…"

The printer whirled the paper out. Mark turned to Roger. He stood by the door, hunkered over in his worn leather jacket, trying to give Mark an encouraging smile but looking instead like he suffered painful constipation.

"Here you are, Mr. Cohen."

"Thank you."

Mark looked at the paper. He couldn't read it. His eyes wouldn't focus. It couldn't be positive. No way. After so many negative tests, it just would not, not suddenly become a…

Mark turned, crushing the paper in his hand as he pushed out of the clinic. It wasn't. It… just… wasn't…

"Mark!" Roger joined him by the railing. He rubbed his back. "You gonna hurl?" he asked. "You're pale," he observed, touching Mark's face.

"I'm fine," Mark said. He looked at Roger. "It's good news," he announced, lying through his teeth.

"Great," Roger said, obviously not believing. He grabbed Mark's hand. Mark tried to jerk away, but Roger held him tightly, squeezing his fingers open and prying out the paper.

"I couldn't read it," Mark admitted.

Roger's eyes jerked across the page. He frowned, reading, then nodded. "Okay," he said. Roger took a deep breath. He nodded. "Okay."

"Well?" Mark asked. Am I dying?

Roger kept nodding. "It's good news," he said levelly. "It's good… It's good news!" he cried, then threw his arms around Mark and hugged him, lifting him off the ground. "It's good news!" Roger called.

"Yay," Mark squeaked. "Roger… I can't breathe."

Roger put him down. "Sorry," he said. Then, "It's good!" and hugged Mark, hard. When he released Mark, both were grinning. "Come on." Roger punched Mark's shoulder gently. "Let's go celebrate."

Mark smiled. "Definitely."

_IT'S OVER!!_

...yeah, that's it. Review? Pretty please? For a happy ending?


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